by Susan Murray
THE WATERBORNE BLADE
by Susan Murray
To my parents, with heartfelt thanks for the weekly trips to the library
Contents
THE WATERBORNE BLADE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
CHAPTER ONE
By the time Weaver reached the anteroom to the king’s chamber, the clammy chill of rain-soaked linen had seeped through to his very bones. The roaring fire in the grate there did little to fend it off, serving only to sting his face where it wasn’t protected by several days’ growth of beard. He ignored the pointed stares from the few courtiers who were about at that time in the evening. He’d sooner have paused for refreshment and dry clothing, but his orders had been clear.
The guard at the door stepped forward, blocking his path. “Halt, and state your business.”
“My business is with the king and no one else.”
The soldier looked taken aback, but held his ground. “The king is in session with his council and I’m to admit no one.”
Another recruit from the north, still wet behind the ears. There were too many like him garrisoning the citadel at present, none of them equipped to face the challenges that lay ahead.
“Step aside, you fool. I’m Ranald Weaver, King’s Man. The king and his council await my report. Will you explain to him the cause for delay?”
The soldier’s jaw dropped. “I… I beg your pardon, sir.” He stepped back and fumbled the door open, announcing Weaver’s arrival.
Tresilian looked up from the table where he presided over his council. The king’s was the youngest face of those assembled there. “Ah, Weaver. You will excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen.” Tresilian scraped back his chair and stood.
The courtier seated to his left protested. “Sire, ought we not all hear this report without delay?” Closer to Tresilian’s age than the other advisors, his elaborate sleeves trailed in wine spilled on the table next to his glass.
Tresilian stared him down. “Urgent as the situation is, Stanton, I shall hear this report through first, without interruption or cavilling.”
Stanton inclined his head with an open-handed gesture of submission. “As you wish, sire. It is, of course, your prerogative.”
“Prerogative be damned. Await my return here.” With a glance at Weaver the king led the way to private quarters beyond the council chamber.
Servants opened and closed the door in silence, leaving the two alone together.
Tresilian looked as if he’d hardly slept in the days Weaver had been away. Small wonder, with fools like that to advise him.
Weaver bowed in formal style. “Sire–”
Tresilian raised a hand. “Never mind all that. Do you have a new name to give me?”
“No, sire. My money’s still on Stanton.”
Tresilian turned away to a side table and filled two goblets with wine from an ornate decanter. “Dare I hope you bring proof?”
“No, sire.”
Tresilian handed one glass to Weaver, then flung himself into a chair, sprawling there irritably. “Damn the fellow, he’s been pettifogging and whining all day. He’s got too many supporters to risk a wrong move now.” He rubbed his eyes and waved a hand towards the chair opposite. “Sit down, then. Take a drink. Tell me the rest – it’s bad, isn’t it?”
Weaver removed his sodden cloak and dropped it over the settle by the fire, then drew out the chair Tresilian indicated and sat. He hadn’t seen his king look so defeated in a long time. Not since he’d learned of the death of his father. “It’s bad. Vasic’s army has crossed the river.” He drew his glass closer across the table. “Their scouts may be in the pass already. I saw campfires half a day’s ride from here.”
Tresilian sank his head in his hands, then looked up again. “Numbers?”
“Five, perhaps six thousand. There were regular messengers passing to and from the south, so probably more.”
Tresilian took a mouthful of wine. “Anything else I should know?”
“He has several units of southern mercenaries.”
Tresilian swore.
Weaver swallowed down more wine, realising how parched his throat was.
Tresilian stretched back in his chair, easing knotted shoulders and neck. “Advice?”
“I wouldn’t presume, sire.”
“Horse shit. I need someone to tell me straight, Ranald. Those old women next door won’t.”
Weaver drew in his breath. “You’ll need to recall the garrisons from the east. There’s a fair chance of holding Highkell until they arrive. A better chance if you lock up Stanton and his cronies tonight.”
“Ever the diplomat, eh, my friend?” For a moment Tresilian smiled. “I understand what you are saying about Master Stanton, I do. But there’s something I must see to first.”
Weaver shrugged. “Lock him up, and everyone he drinks with, games with, talks with. You are king. Don’t leave it to chance.” He drained his glass.
“That would be half the court. And all on no more proof than that.” Tresilian raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
Weaver lowered his eyes. He might be no diplomat, but he knew this wasn’t the time to test the limits of their friendship. “What would you have me do now, sire? Take a unit east to marshal the garrisons, or deal with Stanton?” He’d need a clear head if he was setting off again in a few hours. Weaver slid his empty glass into the middle of the table, noticing for the first time an incongruous bundle of homespun clothing sitting there.
“Neither.”
Weaver looked up sharply. “Neither?”
“I’ll send Teviot east with my orders.”
Weaver nodded. “He’s sound. What of Stanton?”
“I’ll deal with him. But first I have another task for you to carry out.” He paused, as if gauging Weaver’s reaction. “Tonight.”
What could be so urgent? Someone must have proved even less faithful than Stanton.
Tresilian emptied his own glass and set it down with deliberation. “I want you to take Alwenna away to sanctuary at Vorrahan. She’ll be safe there.”
Weaver gaped at him. “But, sire, you’ll need me here. Old Clarin’s reliable. He’d be a better choice to escort her party. I’m a soldier, not a courtier.”
“This won’t be some courtly procession to draw attention. You’ll travel fast, in secret. No one will even know she’s gone. Not until, Goddess willing, she’s safe behind the precinct walls.”
“I’m not a fit escort for the lady, sire. Don’t ask it of me, I beg you.” A sharp pain bit behind Weaver’s eyes. He knew better than to swill strong wine on an empty stomach. One day, he’d set down a glass before it was empty. One day, but not this day.
Tresilian watched him with the sort of intensity Weaver had last seen before they were due to go into battle. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. I want to put the breadth of Highground between my wife and Vasic. Must I remind you of your oath?”
A King’s Man swore a lifetime’s obedience to his monarch. But that was about soldiering. Not… this. “Sire, please reconsider.”
“You’re by far the ablest for the task. I have too much at stake to risk her safety now. Swear you’ll do this.” Half-rising from his chair, he planted his hands on the table and leaned over, his gaze intense. “Swear you’ll keep her safe, Ranald.”
Weaver lowered his head. “I swear it.”
“Thank you, my friend. That’s a weight off my mind.” Tresilian shoved his chair back and strode over to the door at the back of the room, which opened onto the newel staircase leading up to his private chambers. A bored servant stationed there straightened up hastily.
“Summon the Lady Alwenna to my presence. Without delay.”
Tresilian closed the door and returned to the table. He picked up a map scroll and pushed aside the bundle of clothing so he could open out the map, weighting the corners with the empty glasses and sliding a candle branch over to see better. “So, what will you need? My best horses are at your disposal.”
Weaver stood up to study the map, rubbing the back of his neck. “If we’re to avoid notice, my own remounts will be more suitable. We’d be taking poor roads, crossing hard terrain… Are you sure about this?”
A shadow crossed Tresilian’s face, before he smiled tightly. “As sure as if my own life depended upon it.”
CHAPTER TWO
The odour of damp wool mingled with horse sweat hit Alwenna the moment she stepped into the king’s chamber. A sodden travelling cloak had been thrown onto the settle, water dripping onto the flagstones beneath it. It was a commoner’s garment, yet its owner stood at the king’s side. The pair of them stooped over the table, engrossed in discussion of a map. None of Tresilian’s appointed advisors were present. Alwenna stepped further into the room and the servant withdrew, closing the door with a clatter.
The newcomer turned her way and bowed. “My lady.” The King’s Man, Weaver. She’d have recognised him the sooner if he’d been wearing the king’s livery as normal. His hair was wet and tangled while his face was unshaven. At least he’d paused long enough to leave his horse outside, if not the smell of it.
“My lord husband. Weaver. Good evening.” Goddess forfend a lady should speak what was on her mind.
Tresilian raised his head then, with no hint of his usual smile.
“There is bad news?” As if there could be any other reason Weaver had trailed mud into the king’s presence.
Tresilian nodded. “Vasic’s army has crossed the river. The vanguard is camped two days’ march away.”
“So close? That’s worse than you feared.”
“It doesn’t leave us much time.” Tresilian drew a deep breath.
Alwenna knew her duty as chatelaine; now she had to prove herself competent. “There’s still a good surplus from last year’s harvest. Tomorrow, I must–”
“No.” Tresilian turned to face her fully. “You’re leaving tonight.”
“What?” Not once had he suggested such a measure might be necessary. “I see no reason to do that. My place is here, at your side.”
“Weaver will escort you to Father Garrad’s precinct on Vorrahan.” He pointed to a tiny island off the north-west coast.
“Would you exile me?” She meant it as a joke, but Tresilian didn’t smile.
He busied himself rolling up the map. “You’ll be out of harm’s way there.”
“Indeed? Am I to have no say in the decision?”
“We haven’t time to argue about this. Only the three of us in this room will know where you’ve gone.”
Alwenna glanced at Weaver; his gaze was fixed on the floor.
“Why such secrecy?” For a dizzying moment she could have sworn the ground shifted beneath her feet, but her husband was speaking as if nothing untoward had happened.
“… suspected Vasic has spies at court. It’s no coincidence he’s made his move when I’ve committed so many troops to trouble in the east.” Tresilian rubbed his forehead. “You’ll set off after dark. This weather should at least prevent anyone seeing you leave.”
“Surely this is unnecessary. It seems – so desperate.”
Tresilian took her hand in his. “No one will expect this. There are factions at court who support Vasic’s claim, and they will act once reinforcements are at hand. You would be their target – he needs you to legitimise his claim to the throne.”
“As did you.” She pulled her hand away.
Tresilian nodded. “As did I. But I’m thinking only of your safety, Alwenna.”
“How can I be safer outside the citadel walls?”
“We had an informant, but last night someone inside the citadel silenced him. I will not risk you. And it will not be a wasted journey: once at Vorrahan I would have you further our cause by seeking Brother Gwydion’s counsel. He is master seer there, and I will not have it said again that we slight the seers.”
That put a different complexion on it. “If that is the case, I must do as you wish.” The tension in Tresilian’s shoulders eased; he truly believed there was danger. That shook Alwenna more than she cared to admit. “Where are the servants? I’ll need to take Wynne with me, of course.” From the corner of her eye Alwenna noticed Weaver turn to the fire with a gesture that might have been impatience.
“The two of you will travel faster and attract less notice without her.”
Alwenna lowered her voice so only Tresilian woul
d hear. “You would send me off on such a journey with none but Weaver? No guardsmen, no companion, no servants? Is that how you would show respect to the seers?”
“That way there will be none to betray you. I have complete trust in Weaver.”
“Then you have told him everything?”
“This is not the time. Tell no one as long as your condition can be hidden. No one.” Tresilian picked up a bundle of clothing from the table and handed it to her. “You will travel in these.”
Alwenna took the clothing from him, the homespun wool coarse beneath her fingertips. She caught a faint scent of herbs. It was vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place it. “This is madness, Tresilian.”
“It’s necessary.” Tresilian returned to the table and gathered up the maps. “I must return to the council meeting. Be ready to leave in an hour’s time.”
Alwenna took half a step to the door. Was she to accept dismissal like a foolish child to the end of her days? “No. I will not go.”
Tresilian leaned his hands on the table, his head lowered. “Alwenna, we have no time to discuss this.”
By the fire, Weaver shifted. “Sire, if we are to leave in an hour I must–”
“Stay, Weaver.” Alwenna was sure Tresilian counted on his presence to prevent her making a scene. “I know I can be frank in front of you. There are few secrets between you and my husband, after all.”
Tresilian looked up sharply. Perhaps only one secret, then. How keen was he that she should not reveal it to Weaver?
“Husband, your family have long impressed upon me the importance of appropriate behaviour for my station. Imagine the outcry if it became common knowledge you had me smuggled out under cover of darkness like some wrongdoer?”
“Our whole purpose is to ensure it never will become common knowledge.” But he didn’t hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.
She dropped the bundle of clothing onto the table, sending a scroll skidding off and onto the floor. “You must have arranged all this in advance. Why wait until the very last minute to tell me?”
Tresilian glanced at Weaver. “We weren’t sure of Vasic’s plans. And I knew you would argue. Believe me, Alwenna, I do not do this gladly.”
And wasn’t that typical of Tresilian, putting off an unpleasant task in the hope he might somehow avoid it entirely? Would she have agreed to set off on this journey in relative comfort days ago, accompanied by whatever retinue her husband deemed appropriate? She knew the answer to that, and felt suddenly foolish for causing a fuss.